Just For Him
by The Detective and The Soldier
Summary: He's delightfully dramatic like that. He would return on his birthday. He would return to John.
1. The First Day

It was three years after the fall. It was Sherlock's birthday. John had wrapped a gift (a beautifully crafted magnifying glass, he'd like that), just incase, incase he came back. It was foolish of him to think that but he did anyway. John was sitting in his chair, in his spot thinking "Nothing weird, nothing out of the ordinary. No Sherlock Holmes yet. Just what he wants me to think. He would." He sat there patiently. Waiting. Wondering with slight excitement. If Sherlock would return it would be now. He was dramatic like that. Fantastically dramatic like that.

When it had turned midnight and it was in the early morning John knew that Sherlock wasn't coming back. Perhaps it was because he knew Sherlock was alive and that the great detective wasn't there, seeing him that pained John so much. John went into the perfectly perserved room of Sherlock Holmes and got into his bed. Trying to believe that he would hear a creak of the footstep of Sherlock.

He woke with uncomfortableness, like an itch that isn't a itch or a hair in the wrong place. There was something near him. A presence. A being of warmth. John finally opened his eyes to see black. It was morning. The black, was the back of Sherlock's head. John moved the covers slightly to reveal the rest of the detective. That bastard. Although angry, John was happy. Delighted. Relieved. It was worth the wait, worth the pain, just for that moment of revelation. The doctor couldn't stop this grin growing on his face. Dr Watson could stay like this forever. Hand just weightlessly drifting along Sherlock's warm chest. He closed his eyes again glowing in the glow of the great Sherlock Holmes. The world's only consulting detective. John's only best friend.

John woke up. Alone in the cold. Tap dripping in the kitchen.


	2. The Second Day

**A/N: Originally I was going to just leave this to a one-shot, but after a request from a good friend, I have added this chapter, and soon more. Please enjoy!**

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John Watson: The Wounded Warrior and Only Friend Of Sherlock Holmes, arose from the nest of the bed, which was rapidly losing heat to the surrounding chilled room. Feet thumped on the floor. Eyes still blurred and stunned by the piercing winter morning light. Heart still aching for his missing companion. Out of Army posture, he brought himself to the kitchen. He rubbed the remnants of the day before off of his tired face and approached the tap. John clasped the cold, plastic handle, that had taken him away from the wonderful world of where he was happy to this ordinary world of Watson. There was one last _drip_ as he rotated his right hand on the handle. A sigh lingered from John's mouth in the ill-lit and ill-coloured kitchen. This was not how he wanted to start today.

Instead, the doctor wanted to be in this moment with Sherlock. With Sherlock the temperature didn't matter, what was for breakfast didn't matter, plans for the oncoming day didn't usually matter. But now, it was too cold, toast and jam it was again and aiding at the thrilling, mind-empowering, _dull _place John Watson worked. And, John thought miserably, was how his life would be until his hope that Sherlock was actually alive either faded or made him angry from the fact that Sherlock was such a great big buffoon and hiding himself away from Dr. Watson. John still lived truly believing Sherlock wasn't a fake and definitely was not dead. He just couldn't be.

He shook that thought away with a stretch of his arms (particularly the soreness of his injured left shoulder). Debating whether just to rest for a few moments more or to make a cup of tea, he scratched the back of his scalp. Now he was as fully awake as he could be for now and wanting tea.

After a hard days work of prescribing anti-biotics and ordering scans for patients with what John would describe as petty health problems, the ex-army doctor unlocked the door to his flat whilst juggling his keys due to the hand full of tugging plastic bags full of shopping. As usual he thudded up the stairs. As usual he opened the door to his flat. As usual it was terribly cold, even for this time of year. And as usual John scanned the flat for any disturbances. Unusually, however, on the dark-wooded coffee table there placed, was a piece of paper, a note in dis-coloured white with the simple word of 'John' written on it. A soon as his glace stopped at this mysterious note John's mouth opened in disbelief. The word on the note was a simple four letters of his name but the writing, this hand-writing was non-other than Sherlock's. Sure this could be fake, this could be some horrible joke, this could just be someone who has similar writing, incredibly similar writing. But these thoughts didn't even begin in John's mind.

The shopping was dropped along with the keys. To John, time had almost slowed so that a heart beat was infact 5 mintues. His limbs couldn't move fast enough for his brain. Then, in that moment where John's hope and dependency were at their strongest, his hand snatched this simple, A5 rectangle of paper that was dis-coloured white with the simple word written in Sherlock's hand of 'John'.


End file.
